


grief became a sword inside her heart

by Singofsolace



Series: grief is a river you wade in until you get to the other side [3]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Harassment, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singofsolace/pseuds/Singofsolace
Summary: In the month following Sabrina's death, Zelda struggles to navigate the consequences of being a public figure to the mortals of Greendale. It would appear she hadn't lived her life as separate from the mortal realm as she had hoped....or, the three mortal men who intrude on Zelda's grief (+plus the one man who doesn't)
Relationships: Dr. Cerberus & Zelda Spellman, Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman
Series: grief is a river you wade in until you get to the other side [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110443
Comments: 19
Kudos: 43





	grief became a sword inside her heart

Sabrina had been dead thirteen days, eleven hours, and twenty-two minutes when the first mortal apparently decided that the Spellman sisters’ request for privacy following the death of their niece had clearly run its course.

Mr. Putnam arrived with a questionable casserole dish and an uncomfortable expression, as if he were already apologizing for having disturbed them.

(Or maybe it was just Zelda’s scowl that put that look on his face).

Joe Putnam was wearing a nice button-down shirt and jeans, rather than his usual overalls, and had combed back his hair. He looked nice. He was clearly making an effort to appear like he hadn’t just come straight from working on the farm.

Maybe he hadn’t. Hecate knew Zelda hadn’t done any work in weeks.

Hilda, ever the polite hostess, invited him inside for a cup of tea. Zelda would never understand the depth of Hilda’s kindness. If it were up to her, she would’ve slammed the door in his face and said “good riddance.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry for your loss,” said Mr. Putnam as Hilda handed him a steaming cup of tea. He wrapped his hands around the cup as if to warm them. Zelda had taken to noticing people’s hands, these days. Mr. Putnam’s hands were calloused and leathery from a life of manual labor.

Mr. Putnam caught Zelda staring, but didn’t comment on it. All he said was, “I hope I’m not interruptin’.”

“It’s kind of you to pop in,” said Hilda, her voice filled with false cheer as she placed a tray of cookies on the table.

Zelda scoffed as she lit a cigarette. Kind? It wasn’t kind. They’d requested privacy for a reason. If they hadn’t, every Tom, Dick, or Harry would’ve been gawping at them in their grief. Sabrina was well-known, if not always well-liked, by all who knew her in Greendale—and all _did_ know her. Her obituary had run on the front page of the Greendale Gazette, complete with a full-page photo of her in her cheerleading uniform. The phone had been ringing off its hook ever since the announcement—that is, it had been, until Zelda finally unplugged it from the wall just to get some peace.

Why couldn’t the mortals just leave them alone…?

Mr. Putnam was hunched over his tea, as if he could sense where her mind had gone and was trying to make himself smaller. “I know Theo already paid his respects, but I thought I should come myself because… well, you were there for me when my wife died… and when my brother, Jesse…”

Mr. Putnam trailed off. Zelda regarded the man through the smoke of her cigarette. She’d orchestrated the funerals for his family, sure enough, but she hardly thought she’d been a beacon of support.

Perhaps he was talking about Hilda.

“I just want you to know that I’m here if you need anything,” Mr. Putnam offered, his brown eyes honest as they flickered between the two Spellman sisters.

Hilda had come to stand behind Zelda, with her hands propped against the back of the chair. Zelda was irked by the fact that she couldn’t see Hilda’s face, or what she was doing, but kept silent.

“Thank you, love,” said Hilda, her voice thick with gratitude. “We’ll be sure to give you a call—”

“What, if we need a _farmer_?” Zelda interrupted, tapping ashes off her cigarette with impatience. “I assure you, Mr. Putnam, we sisters can handle ourselves just fine.”

Mr. Putnam’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“Zelds!” Hilda admonished, coming around to her side. “There’s no need to be so _rude_ —”

“That’s alright,” Mr. Putnam said, his cheeks red as he tried to recover from the shock. “Mrs. Spellman has a point—”

“ _Mrs._ Spellman?” Zelda spat, standing up so suddenly that both Hilda and Mr. Putnam flinched back.

“Zelda, calm down,” Hilda soothed, reaching out to take Zelda’s elbow, but her sister brushed her off.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Hildegard,” Zelda said as she stalked around the table.

Joe Putnam, for his part, didn’t seem too intimidated by her bluster. He remained in his seat, calmly observing her outburst as if he knew, somehow, that it had nothing to do with him.

“Have you ever known me to be a married woman, Mr. Putnam?” Zelda said, shoving her left hand in front of Joe Putnam’s face. “Do you see a ring on my finger?”

“Zelds—”

_“Do you?”_

Mr. Putnam shook his head slowly as Hilda dragged Zelda away from him by the arm.

“We’ll just be a minute,” Hilda said over her shoulder as she ushered Zelda out.

Not knowing what, precisely, he was meant to be doing, Mr. Putnam took a cookie from the plate. He could vaguely hear an argument happening in the adjacent room as he bit into it. He finished his tea in silence, worried when the sounds in the next room stopped abruptly.

Clearly, it was too soon for him to have come. Theo had warned him against the visit. He should’ve listened to his son, who knew the Spellman aunts far better than he did himself. But Sabrina had been Theo’s oldest friend, and so there’d been plenty of occasions when he and Hilda Spellman had taken the children for outings together.

He’d thought he might be welcome, if only for old time’s sake, but obviously, he’d been wrong.

“So sorry about that, Mr. Putnam,” said Hilda, brushing her sleeve under her eyes as if to hide that she’d been crying. She was noticeably alone. “My sister, she’s… she’s not very well, you see.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Putnam, standing from the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, no,” said Hilda, taking Mr. Putnam’s hand. “I’m glad you did. And even though she doesn’t show it, I’m sure Zelda appreciates the gesture. It’s nice to know our girl touched so many lives.”

“She did,” Mr. Putnam said as Hilda cleaned up his empty mug. For a moment, neither of them spoke, as Mr. Putnam got lost in a memory.

“Penny Dreadful for your thoughts?” called Hilda from the sink.

Mr. Putnam furrowed his brows at the odd turn of phrase, but didn’t comment. “There was this one time, Theo came home with a bruised face. I could tell someone had attacked him, but he wouldn’t tell me what happened, only that Sabrina was helping him fix it—that Sabrina was standing up for him. You raised that girl right, Miss Spellman.”

Hilda sniffed, her nose red and running as she returned from the sink. “It wasn’t all me. I dare say Zelda had more to do with making Sabrina that way. She’s a hard woman, my sister, but a brave one. There never was a downtrodden person she wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to help.”

Mr. Putnam grunted an affirmative response. He believed it. “I reckon’ there was a lot of both of you in that girl, Miss Spellman.”

Hilda didn’t try to hide her tears at that. Feeling terrible for having upset her, Mr. Putnam rose from the table, shoved his hand into his pocket, and drew out a clean handkerchief. Hilda accepted it gratefully.

“Thank you, love,” said Hilda, dabbing at her eyes before blowing her nose. “I don’t mean to go to pieces. It’s just… I’ve had my hands full here, taking care of my sister and nephew. I keep myself busy, so I never have to think about it, and sometimes, I’m so wrapped up in taking care of everyone, like I’ve always done, I forget that she’s… she’s…”

At this, Hilda began to sob. Not knowing what else to do, Mr. Putnam extended his arms for a hug. Hilda walked into his embrace, grateful for the shoulder to cry on, and while Joe wasn’t exactly used to comforting hysterical women, he felt for the first time since walking into the mortuary that he was actually doing something right.

* * *

Sabrina had been dead twenty-one days, thirteen hours, and forty-two minutes when Reverend Walker cornered Zelda outside of _Cerberus Books_. It was the first time Hilda had sent her on an errand into town alone, and while she’d rolled her eyes at her sister’s concern that it might be “too much,” she very much regretted that irreverence now.

“Miss Spellman!” the Reverend said, his voice too loud for the space between them. Leave it to a preacher to use his preaching voice on unsuspecting women.

Zelda put her head down and kept walking, hoping he would leave her alone if she didn’t acknowledge him, but she had no such luck. His hand was on her shoulder before she knew it, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from snarling, “ _Don’t touch me!”_

The death glare she leveled at him would’ve cowed even the bravest of men, but he seemed annoyingly unaffected by it.

“Miss Spellman, I’m glad I caught you,” said Reverend Walker, his hand running over her shoulder and down her arm so that he could take her hand in his. The touch felt like that of a thousand spiders crawling over her skin, but Zelda kept silent, as she was well aware that they were already garnering interested looks from passers-by.

“And why is that?” Zelda ground out, her gloved hand limp in the Reverend’s firm grip.

“Rosalind tells me your family is struggling in these difficult times,” the Reverend said, his voice still too loud for Zelda’s liking.

“Your daughter is mistaken,” Zelda hissed, not wanting her private business aired out on the street.

Ignoring her words, the Reverend continued, “I just wanted to offer myself to you as a possible source of light and healing," here, he squeezed her hand. "When a child dies, even a wayward lamb seeks the comfort of its flock. I’ve been praying for you and your family, and every Sunday our congregation lifts their voices in prayer for you, too.”

Zelda’s stomach dropped. She wanted nothing from the False God or its children. And what was more—Reverend Walker knew damn well she wasn’t a Christian. They’d had this conversation many times before, whenever he tried to influence her secular funeral arrangements on behalf of a Christian congregant. While she’d never specified what religion she practiced, she thought the Reverend would have the good sense to leave well enough alone.

Apparently not.

“With respect, Reverend, I speak for my whole family when I say: we aren't wayward lambs needing to be welcomed back into the fold,” said Zelda, snatching her hand out of his grip, "and we most certainly don't need your prayers."

A shadow fell over the man’s face. “I respected your wishes when you insisted that only Rosalind was invited to the private funeral service. Our church’s candlelight vigil for Sabrina was cancelled upon your request. But the people of Greendale need somewhere to channel their grief. What harm can praying do? We pray for others who have fallen, too. Atheists and the like. It’s just our way.”

A wave of rage like no other crashed over Zelda. She could feel it sweeping over her head and made no effort at all to fight it. “It might be _your_ way, but it isn’t mine. I’m not an atheist, sir, and I take offense at the assumptions you’ve made about us. We Spellmans aren’t a ‘fallen’ family.”

The Reverend took a step back as Zelda entered his personal space. Despite the fact that he stood at least six inches taller than the woman, Reverend Walker suddenly felt very small.

“I know more about you, Thomas Walker, than you do about me,” Zelda whispered, her voice heavy with a threat. “I know your family is descended from witches. I know you've lied to your daughter all her life. You've made her think her blindness was caused by lack of trust in your False God—that _faithlessness_ was the reason Ruth Walker, and all Walker women before her went blind. I know you became a preacher to shield yourself from the influence of the Dark Lord. And I know that no matter how long you live, you’ll always be running away from who you really are. Who you were born to be.”

Realizing that there was now a small crowd of townsfolk who were watching her threaten a beloved preacher, Zelda slipped into her Caligari skin. Smiling coquettishly, she reached out to straighten the Reverend’s tie—a familiar gesture she'd done for Faustus and even her brother, Edward, a hundred times before. It was as natural as it was disorienting, to do this for another man, even if her intention was to distract him from the befuddlement spell her fingers were smoothing into his clothes.

The Reverend didn’t move a single muscle, too shocked to stop her.

“You have your God, and I have mine. I’d thank you to keep my family’s name out of your prayers, as I’ve asked you _thrice_ now to respect my wishes in this matter.”

The Reverend swallowed thickly as Zelda brushed her hands over the tops of his shoulders under the pretense of getting rid of any dust. She could feel her magic weakening even as she picked the last piece of lint off his suit.

“And one more thing, Reverend,” Zelda said as she stepped back.

“Yes?” Mr. Walker said, his voice noticeably quieter than it was before.

“Your daughter deserves someone brave enough to tell her the truth. Someone who won’t lie to her about her family’s history. Perhaps _I’ll_ pray for _you_ , for courage, hmmm?”

With that, Zelda turned on her heel, leaving the baffled Reverend behind to ponder her words.

* * *

Sabrina had been dead twenty-six days, eight hours, and twelve minutes when Mr. Kinkle stumbled into the Spellman cemetery, three sheets to the wind. At first, Zelda didn’t notice him, as she was replacing the flowers on her daughters’ graves with fresh ones, and brushing off the light dusting of snow that had fallen into the crevices of her name. But when the man tripped over a familiar’s grave stone, he let out a loud curse that caught her attention.

“Mr. Kinkle?” Zelda said warily as she did some surreptitious magic to change the name on Sabrina Morningstar’s grave.

“’M-Morning,” Mr. Kinkle said, over-emphasizing the “m” in a way that only a drunk person pretending to be sober would do.

“You’re not welcome here, Mr. Kinkle,” Zelda said, her voice calmer than she felt. “I thought I made that clear?”

Mr. Kinkle’s lips curled up on one side to show his teeth. “You did, but you s-see, I got to thinkin’, that I had a right to be here anyway.”

Zelda shivered, more from the cold than from anything else. She hadn’t dressed for the bitter bite of winter, since she figured she’d only be outside for a short time. Her eyes roved over Mr. Kinkle’s disheveled appearance, sad to note that his sobriety seemed a thing of the past.

“I can see you’ve been drinking again.”

“You see nothin’,” Mr. Kinkle said, pointing a fat finger at her. “Just a little hair o’ the dog to s-set me straight.”

“Ah,” Zelda said, her eyes flickering from Mr. Kinkle to the house. “Perhaps I should call you a taxi?”

“No,” Mr. Kinkle said, stumbling closer. Zelda took a few rapid steps back, not wanting to be within the range of his touch.

“You either go home voluntarily in a taxi, or I call the police and you can sober up in a cell,” Zelda warned, raising a hand to indicate he should stop coming towards her. “You’re trespassing on private property.”

“It ain’t private,” Mr. Kinkle scoffed, waving his hands at the cemetery. “This here is public land—at least, I think it is, ‘cause you’ve buried everybody’s dead here. My wife’s in here. You tellin’ me I can’t visit my dead wife?”

Zelda sighed, shoving her hands beneath her armpits for warmth. She didn’t have the patience to argue with a drunk. “Your wife was laid here at _her_ request, not yours, if I recall correctly. And you’ve never visited her before.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t missed her so much before,” Mr. Kinkle said, casting his gaze around, as if looking for the right tombstone.

“Mr. Kinkle, I really must insist you go home. We can work out a visitation at some other time, when you’ve sobered up—”

“I was sober for 11 months. I think I’m allowed to drink on the anniversary o’ my son’s death.”

Zelda’s breath caught her throat. She’d forgotten. Not that Tommy Kinkle had died—oh no, that funeral service was very much ingrained in her memory—but that it was already Black Friday again for the mortals.

“Yes, well… while I’m sorry for the pain this day is causing you, I’ve made it exceedingly clear to you that I don’t want a violent drunk on my property.”

“’m not violent,” Mr. Kinkle growled, though the menacing step he took towards her cancelled out his words. “How I discipline my kids is none of yer busines.”

“I think Child Protective Services would disagree,” Zelda said, her eyes flickering back to the house again, wishing that Hilda or Ambrose would look out the window and see her predicament. She didn’t want to use magic on Mr. Kinkle if she could help it, but things weren’t looking too hopeful on that score.

“I haven’t raised a hand to Harvey since you did that goddamn magic trick,” Mr. Kinkle spit, tripping over his own feet until he was uncomfortably close to her.

Zelda wanted to keep moving back, but at this point she was nearly flush up against a collection of large tombstones all laid in a line, with no space between them. She would have to physically turn her back and run at an angle to get away from him, lest she trip on the uneven ground, but if she’d learned anything about violent drunks in all of her dealings with her father, she knew that you should never turn your back on one.

“Shoulda known you were a witch. Yer girl, too. She gave me some magic rum that sobered me up. Guess it wore off though, didn’t it? She wasn’t too good of a witch, was she?”

“Don’t you dare talk about my niece like that,” said Zelda, feeling magic spark at her fingertips, completely beyond her control. _No, no, no_. She couldn’t let her magic loose on him. She needed to be in control. She’d already risked exposing her family once this week, what with her less than friendly conversation with Reverend Walker. Drunk or not, Mr. Kinkle was still a witch hunter, descended from witch hunters, and her coven was still a broken shell of what it once was, vulnerable to attack.

And what was more, Zelda hadn’t had reliable control of her magic in months. The power Hecate had given her wasn’t at all like the Dark Lord’s. It didn’t function the same way; it was far more attuned to her emotions and her mental state than she would like. She was still learning how to channel and control it, without having anyone to guide her. It would take decades to fully understand it—time she didn’t have, when there were so many threats all around her and she was still drowning in her grief.

Zelda was torn from her thoughts when Mr. Kinkle laughed—a malicious, nasty sound. When Zelda tried to take another step back, she realized she was now flush against a large tombstone, (Great Aunt Locasta, may her memory be a curse), with Mr. Kinkle blocking her only path to get away.

How had she let this happen? She’d been to the right of Sabrina’s tombstone when it all started, so how had she backed up so far that she’d caged herself in without realizing it…? How could she be so distracted as to not realize she was walking right into a trap? She really was slipping.

“My daddy and granddaddy always told me the only way to handle witches is to string ‘em up,” Mr. Kinkle said, moving in close enough for Zelda to smell the whiskey on his breath. Slowly—almost reverently—he reached his hand up to touch her throat. “For a year I’ve been imagining a rope around yer pretty neck—”

“Mr. Kinkle!” came an urgent shout, which distracted the man long enough for Zelda to lunge forward and shove him, _hard_ , into the ground. There, he sputtered and scrambled for a moment, unable to find his balance to get back up.

“Zelda, are you alright?!”

Zelda turned to her left to see Dr. Cerberus, who was panting with exertion, clearly having sprinted all the way from the front door to the cemetery in great haste. It was almost touching, to see his concern for her so openly on his face. She felt an unexpected rush of affection for the man she once thought of as nothing more than a lunatic trash peddler who dressed up like a vampire.

“Yes, of course. Mr. Kinkle and I were just having a rather unpleasant conversation, but seeing as it’s the anniversary of his son’s death, I think I will extend the courtesy of calling a taxi service, rather than the police, to collect him.”

Zelda eyed Mr. Kinkle, who was still on the ground, possibly too drunk to stand back up on his own. He looked an awful lot like her father, glaring up at her like that, with his clothes full of grave dirt and liquor on his breath. For a moment, time stood still, and she could hear her father’s voice in her ear:

_“You little whore. You’ll pay for this. When I’m through with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born!”_

Tearing herself away from her dark thoughts, Zelda turned to Dr. Cee. “Would you mind keeping an eye on him while I make the phone call?”

Dr. Cee’s eyes flickered between her and Mr. Kinkle, as if debating which job he’d rather do—watch over the drunk, or return to the mortuary to make the call himself—before he straightened his spine and rose to the occasion. “Of course. You can count on me.”

As Zelda passed him, she put a grateful hand on his shoulder. Their eyes connected as she offered him a small smile.

“I knew I could.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is borrowed from the Bible. It refers to Mary's grief becoming a sword inside her chest upon the death of her son, Jesus.
> 
> If you have a moment, please drop a line to let me know what you think!


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